


Harry Potter and the Half-Brother

by hamishenry



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adam Driver as Snape, Gen, Good Severus Snape, Harry Potter Has a Sibling, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Manipulative Albus Dumbledore, Mentor Severus Snape, One Night Stand Snily, Regulus Black Namesake, Severitus
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:33:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23222566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hamishenry/pseuds/hamishenry
Summary: It's Harry Potter's third year at Hogwarts, and things are about to change. In the group of newly arrived first years, a head full of red hair sticks out among the rest. Secrets buried beneath the horror of the First Wizarding War are getting dug up; the first? Professor Snape has a kid, and he's here to stay.
Relationships: Harry Potter & Original Character(s), Harry Potter & Severus Snape, Severus Snape & Original Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 41





	Harry Potter and the Half-Brother

**Author's Note:**

> chapter soon to be revised along with an added prologue
> 
> for visual learners:
> 
> -Hogwarts robes look like the ones on the new 20th anniversary Thai covers. See Philosophers Stone cover for pre-sorting robes, and see Prisoner of Azkaban book cover for post-sorting robes. (The art is absolutely stunning, and I’m fond of the metal robe clasp that is the Hogwarts crest).
> 
> -Though I love Rickman, he was rather old for the part. In PoA Snape would only be 32/33, thus for visuals I imagine Adam Driver as the beloved Potions Professor.

_"Once the idea exists, it cannot be killed."_ —Sherlock Holmes, (Sherlock)

* * *

The candles in the Great Hall flickered; flames swept back and forth but never extinguished, and wax dripped but never fell. Across the ceiling stretched an illusion of the night sky; stars so close that they seemed within grasp if you just reached far enough.

It was the beginning of the term feast, and Harry Potter's third year at Hogwarts. Another year here was another year spent at his real home, a place where the Dursleys could never come, and would never want to.

First years were being marched through the centre of the hall and like every year without fail, you had those who trembled with excitement, terror, and the occasional child who, although being surrounded by all this magic, still looked homesick already.

Harry didn't spend very long looking at them until he heard Draco Malfoy from across the room state loudly, "is that red hair? I didn't realize the Weasley's had _another_ runt. Someone should tell them they already won the 'poorest family with the most kids to feed' competition."

Harry's head swung back around to the first years. He analyzed the group, scanning for a head full of red hair. He failed to notice Ron's clenched fists and angry muttering, telling Malfoy to shut up, while another kid from Slytherin said something along the lines of, "no, he can't be a Weasley. His clothes are of good quality."

Right there. The boy stood tall, although he was one of the smallest first years. He looked as though had he been fed a little more, he'd have been the same height if not taller. Harry's view was obstructed by the surrounding first years, and therefore restricted to mostly the back of the boy's head; hair the colour of fire refused to be settled—messy, but not tangled—not unlike Harry's own. His robes looked neat, and his arms hung lazily by his side. Harry's gaze trailed down, and he stared at long, slender fingers, nails trimmed immaculately.

He shook his head and sat back in place on his seat. Harry hadn't even realized he'd been leaning forward to try and see more of the mysterious redhead. All Harry knew was that he wanted, really wanted—no, needed—to see the boy's eyes, his face, everything. It was as if there was an odd connection drawing him towards the other.

"Merlin," Harry whispered, "I'm going mad." 

* * *

Regulus stood among his fellow first years, anxious. You couldn't tell unless you looked him straight in the eye, where his emotions pooled and thundered just beneath the surface, hidden behind a most unusual case of heterochromia—one eye pitch black, the other an extraordinary green. He was not nervous because of the sorting—no, dad told him all about the dirty old hat that had sat upon hundreds and thousands of heads—but because somewhere in this room his brother was seated, and when Regulus' name was called Harry Potter would have no idea they were related.

> "Dad," Regulus' tongue swept over his bottom lip, once, twice, then again, slower this time. Nerves. He was nervous; he didn't know what for. It'd only been a month, and although that name, phrase, _title_ , still tasted foreign in his mouth, there was nothing else quite like it. For the first time, he had a father, someone who he could call dad, someone who had come save him, held him, and someone who had spent the last month swearing to protect him. Regulus had never had that before.
> 
> "Mm," low and deep, his father's voice was a soothing balm as it drifted across the silence of the evening.
> 
> Regulus closed his eyes, and amidst all the quiet, he listened to the noise. The fireplace crackled, the sounds of wood splintering off the log only to fall further into the clutches of fire. The rhythmic tapping of fingers against a book cover and the soft woosh of paper as the pages of his father's novel turned.
> 
> "I—" he twisted the fabric of his jumper between his fists. _'_ _These things take time, and I promise you, I will always try my hardest to give you time,'_ father had told him. Sometimes, when Regulus got nervous enough, he spat his thoughts out so fast that it surely rivalled the speed at which Sherlock Holmes presented his deductions. Whenever that happened, father smiled amusedly before asking him to repeat himself—a reasonable request. The problem is, Regulus hated, _hated_ repeating himself. It wasn't because he thought himself better, or that he believed people should have heard him the first time, but instead because when he was little—well, little-er, he was still only eleven after all, twelve on September 21st if you wanted to get specific—his previous _family_ enjoyed a questionable pastime that consisted of forcing him to beg over and over for any scraps of affection. And when it got to the point where tears were streaming down his face, and his chest was heaving up and down as he forced distressed breaths out his throat, they'd smile cruelly and tell him to go away. It was a shame they never got bored all that fast, then perhaps the game wouldn't have lasted as long as it had.
> 
> He and dad quickly realized the best solution for this particular trauma—at least, for the moment—is that if given long enough, he'd talk at his own time and pace.
> 
> His father looked up; for eyes capable of being filled with such vitriol, it was astounding at how much warmth they could hold. "I can tell Harry, right? About me, us? That he's my brother. I, you never said if you wanted—or that I could—what I'm trying to say is..." Regulus bit the inside of his cheek and sighed, "I don't mean I want to tell him alone. But like, in general. So he knows..."
> 
> Regulus studied his father carefully. He watched as his father's fingers ceased to drum against the novel, fingertips caressed the hardcover before he closed the book and set it down on the side table. He grew confused as his father continued to stare at him in a most unusual way—worried perhaps? "Regulus," his dad began, voice gentle, "were you under the impression that I wasn't going to let Potter—Harry, know that you were related—brothers? That I would forbid it?"
> 
> "I... no! Well, I wasn't sure. How was I supposed to know? This isn't, it's not—! It's not a normal situation is it?!" He was getting worked up, and air forced itself from his lungs in short irregular spurts the more distressed he got. Then his dad was in front of him, and long spindly fingers clasped gently around his biceps, strong arms pulled him close.
> 
> "No, it's not a normal situation," his dad spoke softly. "Rest assured that yes, you can tell Potter—Harry. We will tell him together, I promise. It's only a matter of finding the opportunity to meet, where we can go over everything." His father's right hand drifted up to cup the back of his head gently. "Relax," he whispered.
> 
> Regulus' hands tightened in his father's robes, and then all the tension released from his body. Yes, this felt good.

"Gotta find the right opportunity," he repeated under his breath.

"Huh?"

"Hmm," Regulus looked up to find the face of a girl with her nose nearly touching his. He took a step back and rubbed his neck uncomfortably. "Nothing, I was only trying to remember something."

" _Oh-kay_ , if you say so," she grinned, laughing; her smile was crooked.

Her name was Willow; Willow Willoughby. He'd met her on the train. She had barged into his cabin, slammed the door shut, then proceeded to fall onto her knees, where she sat there and tried to catch her breath. And when she'd finally stopped panting, she looked up, and a lopsided grin met his curious gaze. Her introduction went a little like this,

"Hey, sorry, uh, about that," she'd pointed to the cabin door. "Almost missed the train, you know? I suppose I could've stopped running once I got on, but oh, I guess I kinda thought, why stop there?" She had closed her eyes, and when she laughed, her whole head tilted back. She lifted herself onto the seat across from him. "Anyway, my name is Willow Willoughby. My father's name is William Willougby, and my mother's name is Wilma Willoughby." She'd seem to find that entertaining; he did as well.

The following time spent during the train ride consisted of him learning a few choice facts about her, such as her favourite wizarding sweet was exploding bonbons, they reminded her of pop rocks, except cocoa and coconut flavour instead of fruity; she loved to read books about anything and everything, if she wasn't busy doing anything else, she was busy reading; also, her favourite colour was puce, mostly because it had a funny name.

Regulus thought she'd make a brilliant Ravenclaw or an exemplary Hufflepuff.

Willow leaned into his shoulder, rocking his body to the side. "So, I never asked. What house do you think you'll get sorted into? Sorry I was too busy talking about myself earlier." The bridge of her nose creased when she giggled.

"It's all right, I don't mind," he glanced up at the head table and caught his father's eyes. Regulus turned to Willow and gave her a small smile, "as for your question... Who knows?"

The group of first years dwindled, each being sorted one after the other in alphabetical order—based on last names—until at last, the only two left standing were Regulus and Willow. Professor McGonagall's voice thus far had been clear and firm—but not unkind—and so when she had finally reached this specific name on her list, she'd begun to read it aloud without fully understanding what words were forming in her throat.

"Sna—" a pause, McGonagall's eyes widened fractionally. "Hm," she shifted the parchment in her grasp before beginning once more, "Snape, Regulus!" Her voice rang crisp and clear.

A blanket of absolute silence covered the hall until it smothered out every last soft-spoken conversation. Willow's hand, which had found its way to his shoulder earlier, fell off after his first shaky step forward.

It's all fine, he thought. He knew this was coming; not only was he a professor's child, but his father had forewarned him of the reputation he held at Hogwarts.

A not-so-quiet hissed whisper of, "Snape?" broke the floodgates, and children of all years whispered back and forth between each other—so loud, you could hardly call it whispering at all. On his way up to the raised platform, he tried to ignore the distinct few conversations he could hear, that sounded along the lines of,

"Sn—Snape? Did, did she say Snape?"

"Professor Snape has a kid?"

"Maybe it's just a coincidence. Different families carry the same surnames. Like Smith."

"Oh God/Merlin, Snape has a child. An actual, living, breathing child!"

and his least favourite, "poor sod! Probably lives an awful life. Imagine having _Snape_ as a father."

Finally, when he climbed up the stairs and reached the stool, and when no student could see his face, he squeezed his eyes closed real tight, just for a second. He let out a long breath—he hadn't known he'd been holding it in until his chest got so uncomfortable he was forced to breathe or pass out—and when he opened his eyes, the tremors that threatened to take over his body subsided. He could, and he would do this.

His hand brushed the top of the stool, and when he looked up, he saw his father's concerned gaze staring back at him. Regulus offered a barely-there smile and a little nod. He turned to face the student body and let out an exasperated huff. Ridiculous, he thought. They don't know anything.

He lowered himself onto the seat and watched warily as Professor McGonagall tracked every small movement. She approached slowly with the hat, and the last thing he saw before the brim fell over his eyes was that of a shocked boy who had black, messy hair—like his own. And Regulus just knew with all that he was, that was his brother.

_"Hmm, let's see, what have we got here? Oh, by the founders, I certainly never expected to see another Snape. Oh, but another child of Lily Evans, yes. I suppose it all rather starts to make sense when you put it like that._

_"Enough of that, we have more important things to discuss. Now, where should I put you? Not Hufflepuff, no. Kind, yes, loyal, no doubt—but with those attributes, you carry heavy wariness and fragile trust._

_"Oh, if I had half a mind, and trust me, this hat does; then a good bet would be to place you in Ravenclaw. Can't go wrong there, not with your genetics. I debated sorting both your parents into the house of the quick and witty, but it was not to be. Never mind that, we're talking about you. And you, you possess a healthy amount of intelligence and you understand that knowledge in itself is not wisdom, but instead applying the knowledge you've gained._

"Hm," the hat released a contemplative sound aloud for all to hear.

_"No, no, perhaps not after all. Slytherin, yes, Slytherin could do you well. You're practically overflowing with ambition, and your cunning knows no bounds. Not surprising considering all you've got knocking around in this head of yours. Slytherin is in your blood._

_"There is, however, one last option. Gryffindor. And oh, well, that certainly struck a chord with you. It is, after all, the house your brother calls home. Hmm, yes, well, you are brave despite what you may think, courageous you are, no doubt._

_"Dear, oh, dear. I must admit I'm at a bit of a loss,"_ Regulus had the faint suspicion he was being mocked—all in good jest—still, the sorting hat continued, _"Ravenclaw, Slytherin, or Gryffindor. I don't suppose you'd like to play eeny-meeny-miney-mo? No? Perhaps you have a preference?"_

Regulus shook his head. His desire to meet with his brother straight away was strong, but whatever house he belonged in is where he wanted to go.

The hat snorted, _"a guess then. Where should you go? Better be..."_

"Gryffindor!"

Before Regulus had been cautious, wary, to call Professor McGonagall's movements and reactions hesitant. There was little doubt now that that was the correct description. She slowly, and carefully pulled the sorting hat from his head, and as he attempted to smooth down his hair there was a single whisper,

"Snape's kid is in Gryffindor?"

_**—𝖍𝖕** _

**Author's Note:**

> chapter soon to be revised along with an added prologue
> 
> for visual learners:
> 
> -Hogwarts robes look like the ones on the new 20th anniversary Thai covers. See Philosophers Stone cover for pre-sorting robes, and see Prisoner of Azkaban book cover for post-sorting robes. (The art is absolutely stunning, and I’m fond of the metal robe clasp that is the Hogwarts crest).
> 
> -Though I love Rickman, he was rather old for the part. In PoA Snape would only be 32/33, thus for visuals I imagine Adam Driver as the beloved Potions Professor.


End file.
